Office Space
by Lawson227
Summary: How is it that Don and Liz came to be sharing an office and subsequently, so buddy-buddy? This is my take on how that may have happened.


**OFFICE SPACE**

**Disclaimer: **Yeah, own nothing but the ideas floating around in my head. The Evil Overlords Eisendrath and Bokenkamp rule it all and we're but their willing subjects.

This is another one that arose out of the many conversations with Lizicia whereupon we found ourselves going, "But why don't the writers…" In this case, it was "Why don't the writers give us at last one scene that explains how Don and Liz became so close? Also, how they started sharing an office? This is my take on it.

* * *

Even weeks after The Incident it was still oddly quiet.

The Incident. That's how she referred to it in her mind, because to call it otherwise—to give it a more specific title—would be to bring the details to the surface. And if she brought the details to the surface, the her mind's eye would be flooded with images, gruesome and vivid and terrifying. If she allowed the images to run rampant through her imagination, then it would trigger the nightmares she'd only _just_ wrestled into submission.

Liz wasn't sure the therapist from the Bureau-mandated sessions had entirely believed her about the nightmares tapering off, but she'd believed her enough to sign off on her return to duty.

That's all that mattered. Returning to duty—getting back to work—settling back into a routine. Never mind the routine to which she'd returned wasn't even close to recognizable.

Liz frowned as she stared out the broad window of her office into the bullpen.

It was too damned quiet, despite the government contractors still scurrying around like industrious rats in a maze—rebuilding the Post Office to be stronger and better and even more impenetrable than before. Hammers clanging, saws whirring, drills whining with a headache-inducing high-pitched drone. Walls and doors were being reinforced, and new and ever-more sophisticated technology was being installed, designed to protect the Post Office and its inhabitants from another Anslo Garrick.

Or worse.

Liz, sighed and rubbed at her temples Okay, fine—it wasn't quiet. Not at all. Matter of fact, it was noisy as hell.

It just wasn't the noise she was accustomed to. The urgent tapping of fingers on keyboards and the drone of quiet discussions and the click of heels against the bare concrete floors. Not that it wasn't happening—it was—just with less urgency than usual.

No, construction aside, the real noise was coming from inside her head— an onslaught of questions and thoughts and more questions and an overwhelming demand to know what in the _hell_ was going on? True to his promise, Red had disappeared. Gone underground. Or, knowing him, more likely was sequestered on some remote tropical island somewhere, exotic cocktail in hand while a sloe-eyed beauty rubbed his feet.

Okay, probably not, but it's not as if it would surprise her.

Cooper was furious that Red had disappeared without so much as a by-your-leave and left them with this mess, even if he didn't say it in so many words. He _had_ made it a top priority, regardless of the suits above him breathing down his neck, to find Red Reddington and so with that directive, they were investigating what few leads they had, but honestly, it was…half-hearted

At least, where Liz's efforts were concerned it was.

Maybe it's because she knew.

Even without his parting phone call she would have known, no matter what measures they took, whatever contacts they reached out to, whatever stone they overturned, they'd find no sign of Red. At least, not until he was damned good and ready to be found. Which left their task force with precious little to do.

And her with too damned much time to think.

"Never took you for the construction worker-ogling type, Keen."

The voice was so familiar—so… unexpected—all she could do was stare, certain that it was yet another one of the voices in her head. Because of all the voices, of course, it would be _that_ voice. Clipped, mocking, yet laced with a definite note of kindness, as if he understood exactly just how stir-crazy she was going.

It wasn't until he cocked his head, one ruddy eyebrow rising, that she realized he was real. And there. And, well… real.

It was that realization that freed her voice. "What are you doing here?"

The eyebrow rose a fraction higher. "Last time I checked I worked here."

Well, then. Surprisingly mild. Acerbic in a way she found absurdly comforting. Definitely, reassuringly _real_.

Didn't stop her from staring in disbelief as Ressler made his way into the office with slow, deliberate steps and carefully dropped into the chair belonging to the desk opposite hers.

"Nothing to say, Keen?" He hung the metal cane on which he'd been leaning from the window sill before turning the chair far enough to allow him to stretch his left leg out with a relieved sigh.

"Of course you work here," she finally managed. "But technically, not for another two weeks."

"It's been six."

She eyed the cane. "Looks like you could've used the additional two weeks."

His narrow blue gaze followed hers. "Yeah, well if that was the only basis by which to judge my fitness for duty, I'd be out another six weeks—at least." He grimaced. "No thanks. I'd rather be stuck in the box with Red again."

"Don't say that," she snapped. Blood rushed in her ears and left her feeling vaguely faint as images from that day assaulted her memory.

"Hey, I was the one in there."

"I was the one who had to see it." Before the words had fully left her, she was cringing at just how petty and stupid they sounded.

He stared at her for a long, weighty moment. "Sorry."

Unable to maintain eye contact, she dropped her gaze to her hands, tightly folded together on the utilitarian desk blotter. "I'm the one who should be saying that."

Because while seeing it had been horrible—trapped on the opposite side of the glass from him and Red and rendered helpless and unable to do anything—what Ressler had experienced and what he would have to live with was far worse. No matter what the Bureau-mandated therapist had said and what she herself knew about the mind's ability to suppress memories in order to provide a wall of protection against severe trauma.

"Look, forget it."

Something about the way he said that—typically low-key yet underscored with something indefinable that she nevertheless recognized—had her lifting her head and meeting his gaze.

"I wish I could."

"Makes two of us. "To her surprise, a corner of his mouth twitched upward. "Especially the part where Red gave me a field transfusion."

Silence descended over the room, uncomfortable and yet not. The dichotomy dragged across Liz's skin, leaving her feeling itchy and prickly and just a little anxious.

She was inexplicably glad to see him.

She didn't know why he was here.

In her office or here, in the Post Office, at all. He was supposed to be taking time. Supposed to be recovering.

He was _not_ supposed to be sitting across from her, leg extended as he shifted in the chair with a wince. Still a bit pale and drawn, making the freckles scattered across his cheeks and the bridge of his nose stand out in stark relief. The pallor also served to emphasize the dark circles beneath his eyes and the shadows beneath his cheekbones, rendering the normally strong lines of the latter sharp and almost brittle and leaving his eyes a muted gray-blue.

Revealing a shocking vulnerability she'd only just glimpsed in that instant where Red propped him up gesturing to her as she knelt, Garrick's gun to her head, making it clear what would happen if Ressler did not give up the damned code right _now_.

No, no, no… Just looking at him, it was patently obvious—he wasn't supposed to be here. Not yet.

And it had nothing to do with the fact that _she_ still needed time. Had things she needed to come to terms with. Like the fact of his giving up the code to the Box. Thus allowing Red to be taken. Thus saving her from Garrick and the bullet he was so damned anxious to put in her head once he realized she meant something to Red.

She hadn't been able to make sense of any of it then or in the weeks since. Given that her entire career had been forged in an ability to make sense of the insensible, it was an untenable situation.

"Cooper wrote me up."

His flat statement snapped her out of her head. "What?"

Now both sides of his mouth twitched. "I may not be a profiler, Keen, but I'm not all that bad at reading body language." He drew a circle around his face before tilting his head toward her. "You'd make a crappy poker player."

She stiffened. "I'm a damned good poker player, Ressler."

"Huh. We'll have to see about that."

She might have wondered more about the meaning behind his easy rejoinder if she hadn't finally registered his first statement.

"Cooper wrote you up?"

"Did you think he wasn't going to?"

"No—I… well…um…hell, I don't know, Ressler. It's not as if it was a by-the-book situation."

He lifted a shoulder, the gesture seemingly casual, yet tight with an obvious tension. "Nothing about our job is ever really by-the-book, Keen. And sure as hell nothing about the last three months has been by-the-book,," he said. "But bottom line is, I disobeyed a direct order."

"Red was going to kill you." She wanted to believe he wouldn't, that he'd show mercy to this man he'd just gone to extraordinary lengths to save, but she'd seen the gun pressed into Ressler's temple; had seen the tension and resolve in every line of Red's posture as he'd leaned over Ressler's prone body.

She wanted to believe he wouldn't—but she just couldn't be sure.

He held her gaze for an endless moment. "That's not—"

"Here we go Agent Ressler. Latest and greatest, as promised."

Liz loved Aram. She really did. In a friendship-forged-under-fire-having-saved-each-other's-asses platonic sort of way. However, right now? Right this second? She could cheerfully strangle him with the trailing cord of the computer tower he held lovingly cradled like a baby.

"Hang on, I'll get out of your way."

Liz watched, open-mouthed, as Ressler awkwardly maneuvered the chair around the side of the desk, rolling it to a halt alongside hers.

"Care to tell me what the hell's going on?"

Ressler shot her a hooded glance. "We're partners," he said calmly, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

"Right." She watched as more minions trailed into the office, toting monitor, keyboard, mouse, and a small mountain of cardboard file boxes that they left neatly stacked in a corner. "And—?"

He remained silent, watchful gaze on Aram as the tech expert hooked the equipment up while Liz restrained the urge to strangle Ressler as well. Enigmatic men were turning out to be the bane of her existence.

"I've linked your two computers together so you can more easily share files—"

"Later, Aram," she managed through gritted teeth.

"But of course, you'll have individual partitions for your private files and emails and such—"

"Aram…"

"It's just a matter of having a single password for the shared windows and individual passwords for your private—"

"_Aram_!"

He stopped short, dark eyes wide as he stared at her. "What?"

Before she could formulate an answer, Ressler broke in with a mild, "Save it for later."

"But—"

He pushed himself to his feet with a muffled groan that left Liz torn between wanting to shove him to the floor or reach out a hand to steady him. In lieu of either, she opted for gripping the chair's arms, feeling the bite of her wedding rings as they pressed into her skin.

"Seriously, later." Using the surface as a makeshift support, he herded Aram out the door before closing it with a decisive click. After exchanging the desk for his cane, he made his way to the boxes, lifting lids and riffling through the contents.

"Ressler—" As was his custom, he was wearing a tie. She could strangle him with that just as easily.

He turned, a coffee mug, legal pads, and handful of pens clutched in his free hand. With his typical no-nonsense demeanor, albeit a bit slowed, he deposited them on what she was finally understanding he was claiming as _his_ desk.

But why?

"Ressler," she repeated, more softly, yet no less insistent.

"Call me old school, but sometimes I think better if I have pen and paper handy."

She remained silent, knowing that sometimes, it was the best—the only—way to coax a response from her partner. She might not know a hell of a lot about Donald Ressler, but she knew that, at least.

There was more she wondered about—more she suspected he _might_ have been on the verge of telling her had Aram not had such spectacularly bad timing. That particular moment was gone—for the time being at least.

Finally, he resumed his seat, remaining alongside, although he turned to face her rather than remain side by side. He adjusted his bad leg with another pained sigh, the sweat beading along his forehead revealing just how much effort even that small amount of movement had cost him.

"I was tired of being on my own." His deep voice was soft, yet resonated within the intimate confines of her—_their_—office. "In my own head."

She nodded slowly. Even though his gaze remained downcast, his lids flickered slightly—indication he'd seen.

"I'm on desk duty for the foreseeable future. In part because of—" He waved an impatient hand at his leg. "And in part because—"

"Cooper wrote you up and you're awaiting review," she broke in.

Gaze still fixed on some point on the floor, he grimaced again.

"That doesn't explain this, however."

Now he lifted his head, hitting her with the full force of his direct gray-blue gaze. "I want us to be partners, Keen."

She swiveled her chair away from him and toward the large window. Funny how ever since the moment he'd walked through the office door, things had felt… right. Or at least, closer to the norm to which she'd become accustomed.

"I thought you said we already were," she said carefully. While her gaze was ostensibly fixed on the activity outside their office, in reality, she was focused on the hazy images reflected back at her, like a scene unfolding onscreen or more accurately, a dreamscape. "Which, I have to confess, came as something of a surprise to me. That you thought that, I mean."

"We are." She watched as his reflection propped an elbow on the desk and leaned in, as if to get a closer look at the same scene she was observing. His reflection's gaze met hers in the window.

"I won't lie, Keen—we had a rough start—but for better or worse, we're partners in this… thing, until we're done with the Blacklist or with playing whatever other game Red's got planned. However, I wasn't bullshitting when I said I respected you. That I like you."

"I like you, too."

The slight incline of his head acknowledged her quiet response. Instinctively she understood that contained within that small gesture was also acknowledgement of her tacit admission that she, too, respected him. Almost as much as she wanted to strangle him. Somehow, she knew he was aware of that, too.

"I think given all we've been through—" he hesitated, as if debating his next choice of words. "It's time we really started acting like partners."

"And sharing an office is part of that?"

"Yes." His touch to her arm prompted her to face him directly. "Look, Keen… Liz—we ever…" He paused then amended himself to, "_when_ we get caught in a situation like… before, I want us to know exactly how the other's going to react. I already have your back and I know you have mine, but what I'm talking about requires more. I need to know you can anticipate my every move, the way I want to anticipate yours. I don't want to have to discuss a plan because we'll instinctively know what to do. I want the silent shorthand that comes from being true partners—the kind of shorthand that only develops from time spent in close quarters and getting to know each other's habits."

Liz remained silent through his litany, hearing the words and their meaning and hearing something… more. Something that went bone deep and thrummed between them with a shimmering, compelling energy. She found she couldn't look away from his intense gaze; maybe more importantly, she didn't want to.

She wanted to learn every shade contained within the changeable gray-blue, every shift of mood and temper. She wanted learn every nuance of his body language, from the merest flicker of an eyelash to a subtle shifting of weight.

Most of all, she never wanted them to be caught as unawares as they'd been by that creepy, scarred son of a bitch or any other bastard who might—or rather would—cross their paths in the future.

"I'll get our coffee for now," she said slowly, "but once you lose the cane, it's fifty-fifty."

He nodded, his expression impressively impassive, yet the fine lines that fanned from the corners of his eyes betrayed an unexpected humor. She filed the knowledge away in the mental folder she had labeled 'Donald Ressler' and that until now, had been too thin for personal comfort.

"We'll split lunches."

Her brows rose. "What about dinners?"

"Those too," he agreed, with a nod for their typically erratic schedules.

"Okay, then."

"Okay?" His eyebrows rose, as if shocked by her easy acquiescence.

"You're asking now?" She shot a pointed glance toward the computer and the legal pads and the stack of boxes lurking in the corner.

"Not really."

"Didn't think so." She stood and reached for the mug he'd dumped on the desk alongside his pens—all the same, a variety of different colors. He clearly liked color-coding his notes. Another detail to file away.

"Good Lord, Ressler, when was the last time you washed this thing?" She shuddered as she looked down into the crusty interior.

"I've been otherwise occupied, Keen."

She held up a finger. "Once, okay? Once. Only because I refuse to contribute to a possible setback to your recovery by introducing some sort of alien experiment into your bloodstream."

"I underestimated the depths of your kindness, Keen."

"Not the only thing you've underestimated." She paused, then impulsively added, "Partner," the syllables rolling off her tongue with shocking ease. Not that it was something she'd make a habit of saying—it was way too hokey and TV drama-like—but for this one moment, it seemed… right.

"I'll be right back." Just as she reached the door, the telltale buzz of a text alert echoed through the room. She glanced over her shoulder. "You or me?"

"Me," he replied, frowning down at his phone. "It's Audrey. Again."

"Audrey?"

"My ex." After a beat, he added, "Fiancée." He took a breath, his features hardening into their typically closed-off expression, signaling an end to the conversation. Faintly disappointed yet somehow relieved that their whole partner/sharing agreement had some limits, Liz turned the doorknob.

"She was still listed as my next of kin, so she came to visit me at the hospital and now—"

Once again she faced him. "Now things are—"

"Different." He sighed and shoved a hand through his hair, leaving the normally restrained strands in disarray. "She's engaged. To some other guy. A guy who is definitely not me. A safe guy."

"But she visited more than once?" Liz guessed, knowing the answer even before he nodded. Why else would Audrey be texting after all?

"Yeah. And I have no idea what the hell to do. Or even if there's anything I should do." His expression abruptly fell back into its typically shuttered lines. He wasn't ready for advice then. Nor was she ready to give it. Not right now. It was enough that he'd shared.

"How about you should have some coffee and maybe a pain pill?" She assessed his pale features and the sweat still beaded along his forehead. "You're still on them, right?"

"Trying not to be," he muttered.

"Don't be an ass, Ressler."

"Don't be a nag, Keen."

"It's what partners do. I'll be right back." She hit him with a frank gaze which he unflinchingly returned.

"I'll be right here."

As the door swung closed behind her she quietly said, "I'm counting on it."


End file.
